I keep having these awful dreams about moving back into Maryston Street, the house we left behind in Melbourne. Not really awful for any other reason, other than that happens. I have a pretty good idea what's going on in my head, too. Partially it's because of the amount of time we spent there without any certainty. There were about eight months when we could have been kicked out at any time. That was draining on everything.
Then there's the fact it was the biggest fuckup of my life. I think my head associates it with all failure in general. And it's reminding me what's in store if I fuckup again, with my impending move back to Melbourne. Well, it's not gunna happen again.